


There's a Softness

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon's Conquest, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Gen, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Mark II, R Plus L Equals J, Time Travel, You decided, or Rebirth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-06-18 18:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15491892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: Near thirteen years after the rebellion, Aegon the Conqueror awakens, surrounded by dragons and yet, utterly alone. An Usurper on the throne, his house exiled and the Kingdom nearing crisis, Aegon the Conqueror does what he does best. There is so much wrong with the world he has woken to.Most certainly there should not be a Stark bastard sporting Visenya's hard frown and Rhaenys' kind eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

# Aegon I

 

Aegon wakes, five and ten all over again.

He knows from the nick to his skin, right at the crook of his elbow, a small slice he'd gained during his last day at four and ten, but without the scar from sparring with Visenya at six and ten.

He wakes cocooned in Balerion's warmth, Vhagar and Meraxes a short distance away, but still visibly breathing. Both painfully absent of their riders.

His head swims with misinformation, with different thoughts that keep warring back and forth, pushing and pulling like waves.

Meraxes should not be here. But it doesn't sound like a fact in his mind, more a hazy recollection. The last remnants of a dream he can only half recall.

But there is no Visenya here, no Rhaenys. He need only look into the eyes of the dragons to know for certain. They are unbound beasts, looking to him for cues as a duckling glances to its mother; familiarity. Perhaps were it not for that, the two would have already flown away.

Aegon reclines back into Balerion's side, his mount far more docile than he has ever known him before. There's a softness to the great dragon now, the black dread that is smaller than he remembers. His mind, Aegon is finding, is far from reliable right now. He needs to know what is happening, why he recalls a murky future when he is but five and ten. There are battles, names of men and declarations of victory that he... he cannot claim for certain. All that and more is slotted away within his head and it makes no sense.

He needs more information.

And clothes.

Information and clothes.

 

It is night when Balerion soars across the mainland, Meraxes and Vhagar near enough to nip at his heels. The sensation of flight is as exhilarating as always, though the chill bites deep beneath his skin. He does not know how Rhaenys could love it so. The thought of her brings a stabbing pain to his chest, a reminder she is not here now.

But he will find out where she is soon enough, where both she and Visenya are.

He lays himself against Balerion's neck, the scorching heat of dragonscales scraping sharp and hard against his skin. The crude loincloth he'd fashioned from grass and leaves offers a terribly low amount of protection from the bite of the elements; were it not for dragon heat, he would have undoubtedly fallen ill from the high altitude's chill. And that is in the best case scenario.

Meraxes roars behind him, echoed by Vhagar a moment later. In comparison, Balerion's is uncharacteristically silent, nothing but the steady thrumming of his beating wings creating any form of sound at all. It discomforts Aegon, leaves him uneasy; it is almost as if his mount is... mourning.

The knowledge that Meraxes and Vhagar are without riders weighs as heavily upon his shoulders as the moon's guiding light.

 

He spots Harrenhal first. Aegon has no idea where he had awoken, nor does he understand how he knows this place when he has never once visited it before. (But... he has? There’s flames, the scorching heat of dragonfire billowing out of the windows, stone cracking beneath the pressure and the screams. Oh by the Seven, the screams). Balerion swoops low, wings stretched large and wide, appearing almost twice his current size with the motion. Aegon can understand why the screaming begins but a moment later.

Harrenhal is occupied by an elderly woman, the last of her family who is all too happy (fearful?) enough to offer Aegon a pair of breeches. Pulling the material up his legs, Aegon fastens the ties with a neat bow, Balerion’s hot breath misting across his back. The woman introduces herself as Shella Whent, last of her family and good-sister to Ser Oswell Whent. She says this name as if it holds weight, as if Aegon should recognise it and favour her for that connection. But it means nothing to him, soars clear over his head with the ease of Vhagar. It is becoming more and more obvious that this place (this time?) is not his own. The large, sprawling ruins of this castle keep overlapping with the mental image of a newly built fortress, swapping back and forth in a way that has Aegon’s head pounding. He is missing something, something is not quite right and he only has Blackfyre and three dragons to his name. Some would proclaim that more than enough. But Aegon is painfully aware of the sister shaped hole on his left, the sister shaped hole on his right. There are two voids in his life and he hasn’t even got the right questions to begin searching for answers. Shella Whent calls for the great hall to be prepared; Aegon denies their intentions of sharing a heath with him (equip with no armour and no sworn swords? No, he shan’t be leaving the protective company of his dragons for a long while now). The castle’s skeleton staff are quick to suggest a picnic instead, their fearful eyes never once leaving Balerion’s intimidating bulk.

They refer to him as Rhaegar’s son (Aegon does not have the slightest clue who this ‘Rhaegar’ is), constantly pointing out the handsome cut of his face, the dark violet of his eyes. Aegon allows them to fall beneath their own assumptions, allows them to continue spinning their own web as others ask if he shall be recreating the War of Conquest. (That was his war, Aegon thinks while another part of his mind screams that cannot possibly be so). He makes no true commitments, no promises pass through his lips. However, the knowledge that Dragonstone has been taken, that it resides beneath the banner of a stag where it had once been (and should always remain) a red dragon, that sets his blood boiling. In the very least he shall be reclaiming the land he grew up on, the land where Rhaenys and Visenya spent their childhood. He can feel Balerion at his back, his bulk comfortingly scorching in a way no other being could be. No, he’ll retake Dragonstone and then consider his options from there. Reclining backs against Balerion, Aegon runs his fingers across the tough scales that reside there, indigo eyes flashing. He has the bare bones of a plan.

 

A few hundred miles away, Lyarra Snow wakes with a gasp, the images of fire, the black dread and a silver haired boy seared into her mind.

 

# Lyarra I

 

 

Lyarra Snow gasps, pressing her hand hard to her fluttering chest, feeling the pounding heart beneath. For a moment she had been all-powerful, fire on her tongue and the air beneath of her wings. There had been two others, one smaller by mere feet with the other significantly larger. Both equally as fearsome but she had known instinctively they would not cause her any harm. Yes, she had not been alone. There had been to others; two others… And a boy. A boy near a man grown but not quite there yet. Hair unlike any she’s ever seen before, a blond so light it has become spun silver, a face that can only belong in Sweet Sansa’s tales. And… And eyes not unlike her own. Dark, capable of passing off as nothing but dark in the near sun-less North but when struck by light… They shimmer a deep pool of near mystic purple. What’s worse, she knows the name of the other, it resides upon the tip of her tongue like an old forgotten song, teasing at the back of her mind.

“Aegon,” she breathes to the silence of her room and something like longing blooms to life in her chest, a place such an emotion has no right to occupy. Not in a bastard such as her. It doesn’t prevent Lyarra from praying for further dreams.

 

Morning comes all too soon and though she had managed to drift back off to sleep, dream had eluded Lyarra. It doesn’t remain that way for long. The next night she has barely closed her eyes before she finds herself soaring through the air again. Wind kisses at her eyes but they do not water. Her legs are tucked beneath her body, tail lashing through the open space to her back. The clouds are tasteless upon her maw, leaving droplets of cool water upon her tongue that does nothing to suffocate the fire in her chest. The other two are there again, soaring beside her and... the boy is there too. He rides upon the back of the dark one, hair that she had seen as shoulder length waves blasting out behind him as they glide through the sky. His body moves with the muscular neck of his mount, fluid and familiar and it hits Lyarra then. It’s wrong. She’s not dreaming in her body. She doesn’t have wings or a tail. Alongside her two dragons fly; she can make a good guess over what body she currently inhibits within her dream. But why would she dream as if she were a dragon? It makes no sense. The dragons are dead and even if they weren’t... she’s a Snow born of Stark blood. And the Starks has never once married into the Targaryens or vice versa... had they? Nowhere in her history lessons (given at her father’s insistence) had their been a mention of such a pairing. The only time Stark and Targaryen had interacted was... was Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen.

 

Lyarra goes through the next few days in a discomforted haze, unable to understand why it is she would dream of dragons when it is Aunt Lyanna that got caught up in those of dragon’s blood. She valiantly, oh so valiantly, tries to ignore the smaller thought that is slowly taking root, that tiny suspicion that is now beginning to rattle bones, to pound against the cages of her ribs. Lyarra goes about her day and tries to instil as much normality as possible into her expression. From the looks Robb sends her way, he’s not fooled. But he is the only one. Lyarra doesn’t share what remains on her mind (what has taken over her mind) but she does find an outlet. Soon enough her sketch is overflowing with pictures, the two dragons she explores the skies and earth with, the boy who resides upon the black beast. He’s on the pages at a distance, he’s staring out the page with hypnotic indigo eyes, a solemn, firm set to his face. It makes him look older, a man grown instead of just on the cusp.

She’s smoothing the edge of a cheekbone down into the jawline when there’s a sharp intake of breath over her shoulder. Lyarra slams the book shut but it’s too late. Robb’s staring at her, eyes not quite comprehending and she wonders what he thinks. What conclusions he has leapt to.

“Theon’s going to be disappointed.” It’s a joke. But even for a joke, the mere concept- Lyarra grimaces, disgust pooling in her stomach. No, she has no desire whatsoever to be bound to Theon and even if she’s a bastard, F-Father would never gift her to a traitor’s son.

“Don’t joke about that, Robb.”

“Purple eyes, huh?” Lyarra flinches again before she forcibly steels her nerves. What could Robb possibly decide from her drawing? All that is coloured are the eyes, there are no features that are otherwise specifically Targaryen (if one discounts the abnormal beauty her muse possesses)... and that is the first time that Lyarra has acknowledge just what family the boy of her dreams hails from. It’s not like there are any Targaryen males alive barring Prince Viserys and he is already a man grown if she recalls her lessons correctly. Lyarra finds the best defence here is none at all, instead simply smiling solemnly at her brother until he grows bored and stalks away, muttering about leaving her to those ‘girlish daydreams’.

 

Seated before the statue of Lyanna Stark in the crypts and still riding high on the latest dragon dream, Lyarra can ignore her runaway thoughts no longer. Eddard Stark has never truly named her his daughter. ‘She is of my blood’. That’s it. That’s the way he’d always referred to her and before she’d believed it because he did not wish to sully his honour any further by clearly claiming her a daughter. By claiming her his daughter. But... what if that’s not all it is? What if... what if she truly is just of his blood? Not his daughter but... but his niece. It makes a startling amount of sense. The reason she looks so much like Lyanna Stark as so many Northerners have claimed, why her eyes are that very same deep purple as those she peers into within her dreams... could it be possible that she is not a Lord Paramount’s bastard, but the bastard of a prince instead?

Lyarra sucks at her lips, the leftover tang of lemon cake that Robb snuck her flavouring the skin. Slowly, she rises to her feet, to the very tips of her toes, and pressing her palm to Lyanna’s cheek. It’s cold, the stone rough. She wonders if Lyanna Stark would have loved her- had loved her. She wonders what Rhaegar Targaryen would think- he had kidnapped her aunt, taken with her beauty some of the braver men in Winterfell had whisper in thought-deserted corridors. If he had loved Lyanna Stark, despite his political marriage to Elia Martell... would he have loved her too? Perhaps it is easier to believe this concept, to believe this tale than to think Eddard Stark allows his wife to continue with her snide words and cutting behaviour. Tracing the curve of Lyanna Stark’s lips, Lyarra tries to mirror the expression. She falls short, unable to match the long-faced frown.

Perhaps the Last Dragon had once frowned as she does.

 

# Aegon II

 

 

The Lord to which Dragonstone has been entrusted is not present when Aegon arrives upon the shore. The night is a heavy blanket of darkness, the thin lick of moon hidden behind the rolling storm clouds. It is only a matter of time until a fang of lightning sliced across the sky, illuminating Balerion’s bulk, exposing the two free dragons that circle in the open air. As things stand, Aegon has two feet planted upon his homeland, clothes in borrowed armour with his sigil hastily stitched into it by the servants of Harrenhal. Lady Shella has gone out of her way to accommodate him, no doubt fearful of history repeating itself. During his few weeks, Aegon had torn through the library, devoured the abridged events of the past three hundred years. Is he Aegon the Conqueror reborn, or Aegon the Sixth who holds memories of a past ancestor? He cannot day for sure, the memories of this body’s life between his birth and awakening beside Balerion are absent. Perhaps he shall never know. It’s not relevant right now. Hand upon his sword, Aegon begins striking forwards across the dull sand, eyes lingering on the flickering of a settlement by the sea. It shan’t be long before they realise he is here. If the gods truly do look down upon him, there shall still be Targaryen support here.

The first few guards boasting the Baratheon colours do not so much as twitch at his appearance. It’s understandable why; Valyrian blood runs true upon this land, he is far from the only one with silver hair. It is only as the light from a nearby inn bleeds across his torso and exposes the crest upon his chest that they begin to react. That is when Balerion makes his presence known. His roar rattles the very earth, extinguishes the sparse littering of outdoor torches. It terrifies the few people who remain out so late at night. Then, then it is no longer night at all. Balerion sets the sky ablaze, flames slathering across the storm clouds until lightning rumbles, lacking a visual but undeniably audible. Undeniably present. People flood out of their houses, out of inns and brothels and they quake in fear at what their eyes meet. There are a brave two who draw their swords; Balerion scorched them. Soon enough there is more screaming, women begging and children crying. Already several knights and guards have thrown down their swords and knelt, swearing loyalty, that they had always been loyal and were simply biding their time. Aegon has little care for their promises; that age old saying of actions and words rings true here.

“Silence!” His call is echoed by Balerion’s roar, his fearsome mount twisting his neck so that his head may reside beside Aegon. The dragon could swallow him whole with ease but that is far from a reasonable fear. He is the very last human Balerion would ever care to eat. As he requested... ordered. As he had ordered, the people fall silent, all but the screaming babes. That Aegon can deal with. One hand upon the hilt of Blackfyre, Aegon grasps for one of Balerion’s horns with the other, holding tight as the dragon rises again. Once he has a sure footing upon one of Balerion’s other horns, Aegon looks out across the crowd, taking note of just how many people stand quivering before him and the selection that showcase classical Valyrian features. “My name,” he clear, voice as loud and clear as he can make it, not that it matter as those that do hear him shall surely whisper of his words for weeks to come, “is Aegon Targaryen, and I have come for what is rightfully mine.” That’s it. There is another moment now, one where it seems as if the whole world holds its breath at the declaration. Here he stands, half atop a dragon with nought but a Valyrian sword at his hip and a face to match his name, laying claim to the very land upon which they all stand. Eyes liger on his form, on Balerion’s larger than life bulk, until one trembling man comes forth. His legs near buckle as he drops to his knee but it is with the utmost reverence that he looks upon Aegon.

“All hail Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.” Lilac eyes, Valyrian eyes, stare reverently up and Aegon dips his head in acceptance of the first to swear fealty. One fool attempts to draw his bow; Balerion’s teeth close around him before the fool can do much as notch an arrow. Following that, the vows of fealty come swifter. Allowing Balerion to lower his head so that he may once again stand upon the dirt-path of a street, Aegon eyes the man that was the first to bend the knee, taking careful not of their similarities.

“Your name?”

“Aurane Waters, bastard of Driftmark, of House Velaryon, Your Grace.” House Velaryon. He remembers a woman, her soft face and beautiful voice. The mother of Aegon the First. If there is any House he can trust, it is this one.

“Contact your Lord. I would have him meet me at Dragonstone as soon as he is able.” Eyes turning upon the looming castle (home, his home) in the distance, Aegon lays his hand once more upon his sword. Dragonstone belonged to the Targaryens even before the first conquest. He would see their banner fly their once again.

 

He meets little resistance as he makes for the castle; only two fools attempt to oppose him and Aegon cuts through one with Blackfyre. The bastard of Driftmark takes the other. His form is good and he’s quick to kill in Aegon’s name. On one hand, that’s promising. Yet, is it for old loyalties, or is it because Aegon is at present the bigger threat with a dragon to his back? Will the man turn upon him the second he shows weakness? It is not a question he can truly answer right now, one he won’t be able to answer until some time has passed them by to affirm loyalties. As much as the passage of time is able to, that is.

The doors to the Chamber of the Painted Table are pushed open for him by submissive guards, Balerion’s bulk visible outside the slit-like windows, a pitch-black shadow against the otherwise dull night. Aegon strides forwards, hands still upon the pummel of Blackfyre; it’s not like he’s safe here, not like he can afford to offer that kind of trust to those that have so easily bent the knee. True some may be honestly loyal to the Targaryen dynasty. It’s not a chance he’s willing to take just quite yet. Back straight and shoulders firm, Aegon stalks forwards towards the raised seat that resides upon the map where Dragonstone rests, seating himself to better look upon the expanse of carved land the map represents. At this moment he holds Dragonstone, though that grip is a tentative one. He fears no outside usurping; they would require boats to reach him and wood burns when faced with a single airborne dragon, nevermind three of them. No, it is only those present upon the island that pose a potential threat, be it by physically attempting to arrogate his rightful position as Lord of Dragonstone or by leaking information to others. He shall need to deal with the ravens first, inform the maesters that no bird is to leave Dragonstone unless it carries Aegon’s words alone within its claws. That required them to cease all contact with outside agencies, including that of the Citadel and the Faith. While Aegon is loathed to turn his back upon the latter, it is imperative right now. Dragons have returned and with them, magic shall soon follow, if it isn’t already present. Neither the Citadel or the Faith shall react well to such a thing, especially given that Aegon the Conqueror (him or his ancestor whose memories he shares, Aegon is unsure) thumbed his nose up at their laws regarding marriage.

“Your Grace, is all well?” The bastard of Driftmark stands to attention by the foot of the map, hands clasped behind his back and face set. He certainly looks Valyrian enough to be a Targaryen loyalist. Aegon is no fool though, he shall hold off judgment, hold off offering his trust, until later.

“For now, it is. The seat of my ancestors…” Aegon runs the tips of his fingers across the armrest of his seat, plants his boots upon the varnished ocean that borders the main body of Westeros. “Tell me, Aurane Waters. What do you believe is to happen next?”

“Next, Your Grace?”

“Yes. I have reclaimed Dragonstone, a land that has belonged to House Targaryen for hundred of years, twice as long as my family have ruled Westeros. It is this place where I can lay my greatest claim uncontested. However, do you believe I shall stop? Do you believe I should?” Tilting his head to a side, Aegon drums his fingers atop the armrest, the sound muffled by the refined wood. The bastard of Driftmark is slow to respond, lips thinning, eyes shifting to a side, undoubtedly wondering if this is a test. Or perhaps if this is a test that can be passed or only failed.

“No. No, I don’t believe that you will stop, or that you should. Dorne will answer your call without question. They’ll be thrilled you’ve lived at all nevermind that you wish to press your claim for the throne; undoubtedly Prince Oberyn will be chomping at the bit to wage war against the Usurper.” The way the title falls from his lips, the disdain in Usurper, indicated Waters has been calling the Stag King this long before Aegon came along. “The Reach were staunch supporters of the Targaryens in the war, but I am unsure if they would be willing to so eagerly join without the promise of concessions. Such as-”

“Marriage to a daughter of the Reach,” Aegon concludes, a frown darkening his face. Marriage to a flower of the Reach (Gardner or Tyrell, he cannot recall which rules at present)… flowers burn within the presence of a dragon, a delicate flower plucked from the Highgarden is not what he requires in a Queen, not what he requires in a woman that is to birth future Targaryens. He thinks of Rhaenys, of her sparkling wit and the dragon-dreams she had walked with such ease. He thinks of Visenya, all hard edges and sharp steel. “No. The Reach will fall in line without that particular concession or another Field of Fire will see a different House ascend to Lord of the Reach.” Waters nods, a shallow thing that acknowledges Aegon’s words but clearly isn’t quite sure what to do with his response.

It is with a hesitance to his voice that he continues, “the Crownlands are questionable. While they loathed the Aerys, they adored your father and Robert Baratheon has done little for the common folk.”

“The common folk won’t win a war.” Dragons will.

“Too true, Your Grace, but they shall certainly help you keep a kingdom running.” On that, Aegon can agree. “Given the Baratheon king and his Lannister queen, the Westerlands and Stormlands will be against you. The Warden of the North is honourable and was rightfully disgusted with the fate of Princess Elia and Princess Rhaenys, but the King still calls him brother in all but blood. Where the North goes, the Riverlands will undoubtedly follow. The Iron Islands are recovering from their own failed rebellion; I doubt they shall care to get involved with either side.”

“I have, at best, two kingdoms that will fall in line,” Aegon concludes, elbow on the chair’s arm and fist pressing into his cheek as he supports his head. Already his eyes are threatening to droop; he has been awake for near and entire day. Yes, it is time for sleep now that he has a general idea of what lays before him. He has, after all, worked with less than two kingdoms, one at worst. How ridiculous, relying upon the Dornish. (His heart aches at the thought, despair when he thinks of Rhaenys, but it flutters away before he can understand why. A desperation for the sister of his hazy memories or the sister of this body?)

“I will retire now, Aurane.”

“I ordered servants to prepare a room-”

“All the same, until there is some foundation of trust, an assurance that I shall not be stabbed to death in my rest, I shall take my sleep beneath Balerion’s bulk.”

“… Of course, Your Grace.”

 

# Lyarra II

 

 

They’re on an island now. Lyarra doesn’t recognise it, has never seen the ocean before but what else can that massive body of water be? Where else could the salt in the air be sourced from, what other expanse could create the waves she hears lapping in the distance? Exhaling, the bastard rises slowly, feeling the talons of her back legs scrape against the rock. It’s discomforting when all that she has previously experienced is air gliding freely across her. To her left, a large castle is looming, decorated by the rising sun from the east. Lyarra twists her neck, more muscles than should be there, to better gaze upon the cresting sun. It doesn’t burn her eyes as it would in her waking moments.

“Meraxes?” Lyarra stills at the name, curling around to find the source. It’s the boy, Aegon, staring up at her through sleep-riddled eyes, one hand pawing at his lower jaw to wide away the trail of drool his slumber has left decorating his face. He’s as beautiful as the first day she saw him, perhaps more so, bathed in the dawning of a new day. Meraxes… is not her name. It must be the name of the body she inhabits, the name of the… dragon. Flexing her wings, shoulder joints rotating and cracking with the movement, Lyarra observes the steam that continues to rise from the two beasts Aegon surrounds himself with, their blistering heat visible in the chill of early morning. “Meraxes!” Aegon’s voice cracks like a whip and Lyarra feels her lips curl with intent that does not belong to her.

At the sound of his bonded’s voice (how does she know that? How does she know the black dragon has laid claim to the boy that is almost a man?), the biggest dragon lifts his head and roars. It is ear-splittingly loud and dominating; it is both Meraxes and Lyarra who lower their head in submission. She aches to get back into the air, to taste the remaining wisps of storm clouds. She doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong with Aegon and the other two dragons. But, but she does? No, there’s something missing, something- Lyarra. Lyarra is missing.

 

Jerking up in her bedsheets, Lyarra gasps, clutching hard to the furs that had covered her sweating body (she never feels the chill, has never felt the chill but now she wakes in a nervous sweat. Even having ever left the North she knows in her bones that the Southern heat of summer will never affect her either) and focuses on just breathing. Her heart hammers, ribs an anvil holding or mayhap molten metal, pounding and pounding until she fears it shall fly free of her chest. She can still feel the other presence, lingering in the back of her mind. The dragon; there’s a dragon lurking in the back of her mind and she can share its body as she sleeps. It feels as if, should she wish hard enough, that she could share that shell in her waking moments too. A desperate kind of laugh bubbles free of her throat, tears gathering in the corner of eyes that are not Northern, eyes that are not from a lady of Starfall at all but are in fact the same melancholy violet as that of the last Dragon. She can ignore it no longer, not when ever other sign points to the truth. She is not Ned Stark’s bastard, cannot possibly be so when all her slumber greets her with is that of dragon dreams.

She is the bastard child of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and out there somewhere, Aegon Targaryen is about to rekindle the War of Conquest.

 


	2. Chapter 2

# Lyarra III

 

She goes through the rest of the week in a haze, deaf to Lady Catelyn (not her step-mother, not even the mother of her half-siblings but her aunt) and her cutting words, deaf to young Arya’s pleading to placate her with a game of knights and dragons (she barely flinches at the latter, but some miracle). Lyarra wonders through the waking hours slowly, the summer’s cool wind nothing more than a gentle caress against her cheeks whereas other’s flush from the touch. She remains unaffected, warm as ever. A dragon in her chest and now there is one in her mind too; it drags her to a state of awareness she could have blissfully gone through her life ignorant to. Now, whenever she sits at the dining table ignoring Catelyn Stark’s glares, she peers helplessly at Arya and Sansa, desperately trying to pick out the few features they share. But where Sansa’s cheekbones had once ridden high, they didn’t cut quite as sharp as Lyarra’s. Where Arya’s skin is pale, Lyarra’s is porcelain. Where Robb’s frown presses firm into the traditional Stark line… Lyarra’s tilts ever so slightly at the corners, lips too well-formed, too curved with the distinctive cupid’s bow. She’s not one of them, not really. It’s painfully obvious, it’s been staring her in the face for far too long. Where no full-blooded Stark can truly carry a tune, where Sansa’s voice is the only delicate thing among the latest batch of Stark children, Lyarra is gifted. She gets that from her father, she thinks, somewhat hysterically. Her father who was known to bring all whom listened to tears. Could she do that? If she picked the right song, got the right voice? Fa-Eddard had politely asked her to stop signing in the presence of company after her first attempt and Lyarra had assumed it was Catelyn talking through her husband. But, but what if it was the Lord of Winterfell attempting to drown one of the key features she shared with her actual father? To smother that resemblance before any could take not of it? It’s not exactly like he could have plucked the purple from her eyes and replaced it with the traditional Stark grey.

“Ned? What’s wrong?” Snapping to attention, Lyarra chances a glance over to her- over to the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, her innards flipping when she notices just how very pale Eddard Stark seems to have suddenly become.

“Father?” Thankfully, it seems that Robb’s voice is enough to drag the man back from whatever he was seeing, a piece of parchment caught in his hand. Lyarra’s eyes land upon the seal and her heart stops. Red and black. Red and black and though she can only see part of the seal, she knows it instinctively. She’s been seeing it so very often in her dreams that it now resides behind the lids of her eyes, seared into her mind, forever present and haunting. The sigil of her father’s house. Targaryen.

“Dragonstone has been taken.” Silence falls upon Eddard Stark’s declaration, Sansa’s fork the only noise as it slips through her fingers and rattles against the silver of her plate.

“Ed?”

“Dragonstone has been taken and a boy claiming to be Aegon states he shall now be pressing his right for the Iron Throne.” Lyarra… Lyarra cannot breathe. As mayhem descends upon the hall she remains seated, muscles refusing to cooperate and allow her to inhale, so that not only is her voice robbed of her but that of her ability to draw breath too. She’d been dreaming of him, dreaming of Aegon Targaryen but it hadn’t quite clicked, hadn’t settled in her mind what that boy being alive would mean. Of course he wouldn’t hesitate to press his claim for the throne; what does he have to lose? His sister dead, mother and father gone the same. The only family he has is in exile, one he was too young to feasibly remember and another not even born when an attempt on the crown prince’s life had been made. They’d never even met. Aegon Targaryen has nothing left but to press his claim. His claim and… and-

“Dragons,” Lyarra whispers, finally able to breathe once again for all the good it will do her. Her voice is lost in the crowd as her father calls for order once again and Lyarra can no long remain within this hall. Maybe her mother had once sat upon this very seat, maybe it had been where Sansa resides. Maybe she hadn’t taken her food in the great hall at all because what does Lyarra know of Lyanna Stark? She died tragically young, started a war because of her kidnap or elopement with the Targaryen prince… and she somehow managed to ensure Lyarra was passed off to Eddard Stark upon her death. Her death which left Lyarra an begrudgingly welcomed ghost in the stronghold her mother had once called home. Rising to her feet, Lyarra leaves her plate untouched as she near flees the hall.

 

She nestles herself away, high up in the broken tower where the wooden beams are rotting to one side, the open window allowing the approaching night’s chill to spill inside. She remains there in silence for a time, listening to the bustle of the staff beneath, the clomping boots of the guards passing by. But there’s none of Bran and Arya’s usual cheer, none of Theon’s brass bragging. They mood is terribly sombre and it is with a heavy heart that Lyarra slowly begins to sing, up in this place where she is nothing more than a songbird who shall never touch the ground. For a few sweet hours, she is able to pretend that she shall never be dragged back to earth, that she is a bird soaring free. But even birds must rest. Even dragon’s must sleep and that requires leaving the air, acknowledging that earth’s pull. It is just her pull comes in the form of Eddard Stark.

“I have known the glory of a great sun, tasted the moon’s own lustre, oh, I have breathed in the night’s expanse of stars. Yet never before have I held such a thing, as your tender kiss and the emotions you sing, you breath new life into this unworthy lover. Dear Rhaeaerys. Sweet Rhaeaerys. My beloved, dear Rhaeaerys.”

“The Dance of Dragons.” The sound of Eddard Stark’s voice has Lyarra hunching in on herself, shoulders drawing tighter as her arms come to rest in a comforting hold around her waist.

“The second song,” Lyarra agrees quietly, staring out across the expanse of dusking sky, stretching across the horizon that the window so clearly captures between its stone pillars. There is no snow today but perhaps that is appropriate. She is the only Snow that needs reside within Winterfell, here only on the good graces of the man she’d been brought up to believe her father.

“Lyarra, are you well? I am aware we are in for… turbulent times, but…” his voice drops off into silence, as if struggling to unearth the words that would comfort her. She who is freshly ten and three, one month into another year of successful survival. Lyarra swallows, heart in her throat, belly full of fire. She wants to confront him, she realises. Wants to scream and demand answers. To know the truth with iron clad certainty from the only man alive would could give her it. Her lips part but nothing comes out. Desire chained by the deep wish to not have the world fall apart around her. Still a bastard, but not of House Stark. Of House Targaryen. Who is to say Aegon will not claim her as the property of his house, as is his right as her… as her half-brother? Who is to say she is not safer here?

“I’ll manage,” Lyarra chokes out, brushing back the tears that begin to spill down the curve of her cheeks. Her Valyrian cheekbones that she got from her father. Eddard Stark pulls her into a tight hug and for the first time in her life, it feels so terribly wrong.

 

 

# Aegon III

 

“The ravens will have arrived by today, if not yesterday, Your Grace.” Aegon considers the words of Monford Velaryon as the Lord of the Tides stands before him, his hands clasped behind his back. Aegon nods slowly, eyes dragging across the room, taking note of every face upon his hastily cobbled together council. Of those within the room, he only truly trusts the bastard of Driftmark and that is without mentioning just how far he trusts him (about as much as he could throw him). However, it is clear to see these people have missed Targaryen rule, have lusted for it like hounds for blood. Monford had professed plans to reinstall a Targaryen dynasty through Viserys Targaryen (his uncle? His descendant?), the second son of Aerys. However, now that Aegon has surfaced, plans had been scrapped, schemes rewrote. Balerion casts a large shadow and manoeuvres must be made for the lords of Dragonstone to step out into the light. Aegon has cast his eye over the plans Monford made, secret messages passed between Prince Doran (his uncle? A salty Dornishman) and the Lord of the Tides, looking for any form of trickery. But it all appeared to check out, so it is with a tentative trust Aegon allows the man to sit upon his war council. He has his eyes on every last one of them, has yet to sleep within the castle rather than surrounded by Balerion’s protective scales. It is a tiring way to live.

“Good. I will deal with the North first.”

“The North, your Grace?” Aegon hums in agreement, testing the edge of the dagger that House Celtigar had gifted him upon swearing their fealty. Fashioned form dragonglass, the handle is decorated with a scale like pattern, the grip excellent. He presses the point ever so slightly into the tip of his forefinger, watching the bead of blood bloom into existence. The council are quiet as they watch him, watching as Aegon rubs the blood between finger and thumb, watch as he glances across the painted table. All they seem capable of right now is watching, all they seem to have done is parade about on tip-toes. The sheer number of daughters that have already conveniently come to visit their father’s is indication enough of what they all hope to achieve. But in that respect, he is also an unknown. His temperament, his intellect, his abilities. All they have been exposed to is his valour, his ability to walk into hostile territory with nought but a dragon at his back and declare himself a king.

“Yes, the North. Given the blood relations the current heir shares with the Riverlands and the links to both the Eyrie and the Baratheon pretender, they need to be dealt with first… What do you think, Shireen?” The terrified little girl can barely look at him and Aegon forbids himself from gritting his teeth in annoyance. He has been nothing but kind to the little girl, the heir of the Baratheon that had been sitting upon his rightful seat at Dragonstone, he has gone out of way to ensure she is cared for while her mother resides within her chambers as a hostage of the war he has begun. (The face of another, Orys, haunts him as he looks upon her. Targaryen and Baratheon had been close once). That he has the full intention of positioning the innocent Shireen as the next head of the Baratheon line at Storm’s End is inconsequential. He needs her, if not loyal, that at least not plotting. It doesn’t appear as if she has a single malicious bone within her body right now. She is not Orys, that much is clear. He is loathed to look for friendship elsewhere.

“His Grace makes an excellent point. It would be a surprise if Prince Oberyn was not already at sea making his way to Dragonstone,” one of the many lords comments, shrewd eyes flickering to glance in Aegon’s direction, to see if he is paying them any attention. He relaxes back into his seat, aches for the presence of Visenya or Rhaenys. It was them that had taken charge of running the kingdom, that much the memories can tell him. He had only ever stepped in when required and it had given him no pleasure to do so. They had been capable and, consequently, he had been left to his own devices, left to his research. That is not to say he is incapable of ruling. Without them, without Orys, the prospect is less appealing. None the less, the kingdoms must be reunited and it cannot remain stable beneath the Baratheon pretender.

“I will fly North tonight,” Aegon concludes, shoulders rolling. Suddenly he’s too contained, too restricted. Though he takes no joy from warfare, though he does not lust for battle, he is longing for a spar, to feel the sweet ache of effort in his muscles. “Aurane, if you have the time for it, a spar?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

 

# Lyarra IV

 

She’s flying again. The wind whips against her face, neither cool nor warm but undeniably present. The clouds are thick around her, an endless field of muted white, so plentiful the sun’s pitiful attempts to shine even a morsel of light through is met with unabated failure. It is glorious, the air beneath her wings, the hundreds of scents that curl in a cocktail at the back of her throat. There’s such power in her fingertips, such haunting hubris but it is all so very well deserved. What resides higher upon the food-chain than that of a dragon, after all? Lyarra inhales and Meraxes exhales.

Beside her, the dark gold dragon, the smaller one, soar. Above, casting a large shadow even with the lack of clear sunlight, the black dread that the boy who is almost a man grown rides covers them. There is no rain and the temperature too high for snow to fall, the summer heightened by the three large beasts that race through the sky. She scents the air, tongue flicking out to taste as her eyes spot the settlement below. The deep grey stands proud among the light layering of snow, the towers almost fingers reaching high, the centre-bed playing at mimicking a palm. She follows the black one’s lead, circling high in the sky, peering down, focusing in on the broken tower that shows such wear; even if she were smaller, she would not consider landing upon the feeble structure. She knows that broken tower!

 

Lyarra Snow slams back into her body with a startled gasp, bolting out of bed before she can think better of it. She races for the door, throwing the heavy wood back and paying no attention to her state of dress, to the iced stone that slaps at her feet. Were she any other, perhaps she would notice the sting of cold but Lyarra has never before done so, she would not begin now.

“Wake up! Wake up! We’re under attack!” Slamming her hand against Robb’s door (the first she comes to) Lyarra barrels on before one of the bannermen can catch her by the arms, making for her father’s door.

Prior to this, she would have never dreamed of baring in on him, of all but ramming the door down with her body, but this is not an every day occurrence. Both occupants of the bed jolt up at her sudden entrance, Catelyn Stark screeching in shock as Eddard Stark blindly grapples for a sword.

“We’re under attack!” And maybe there’s something like true panic in her face because even the woman who has demoralized her at every opportunity takes a moment before she leaps on that opening.

“Ned, your bastard-” Whatever had been about to leave the Lady Catelyn’s lips is not something Lyarra shall ever find out, for in that moment, the world outside is lit ablaze. The windows glow orange, she can feel the heat, even behind the glass. Dragon-flame. Turning her eyes upon Eddard Stark, Lyarra meets his horrified gaze before she can bear it no longer. She flees the room, sprinting down the corridors, unsure where she plans to go, what she plans to do. She had seen this coming, had been within the mind of what is quite possibly the very beast that is lighting up the world outside. She can hear terrified screaming, can hear the fearful calls and all she can do is hastily search for the nearest bow and arrow. It shall do little against a dragon she knows. If the Old Gods bless her, she may be able to shoot one on the eye. But she will never take one down. Hysteria bubbles in her chest but she pushes it back, shoves it down and seals it up tight. There is no time for thinking on the consequences of the first ill-thought-out plan to enter her mind.

She burst out onto the bridge between the armour and the Great Keep just as the flames cut out. They hadn’t been cooking the inhabitants of Winterfell, instead licking at the night’s sky just above the keep. Of the few guards below that had been standing on duty throughout the night, Lyarra can see that they are laced in sweat, faces red, as if they had burnt from merely looking up the fires that had lit up the night. Swallowing, Lyarra swings the quiver over one shoulder, scrambling to notch an arrow. The second the projectile is in place she flicks her gaze up, searching for the source of the flames. Even in the dark of night it’s hard to miss.

The dragon is huge. She’d known that, had seen it before. But it is very different to look upon the beast as a dragon herself and then to stare up at it’s great bulk as a very fragile human. By the Old Gods, she is perhaps no larger than one of it’s talons; it could devour her in one bite, it would be possible to wheel a horse-drawn carriage down it’s gullet and still have room for more. His wingspan only made his size more obvious; the dragon could stretch and it would swallow all of Winterfell beneath its shadow, along with a good chunk of Wintertown too. How she could have possibly believed it possible to land a hit upon him, Lyarra does not know. If Aegon wishes it, they are all dead. The very fact that no flames currently douse the keep is the only indication that it is not his intentions as of present. There are women, women and children screaming and crying and mean shouting; it’s all tinged with fear, Lyarra can taste it upon her tongue. But no, it is not she who can taste the emotions, humans are not capable of that and she shoves the thought (sensation) away. All is silent when the great black shadow roars; it sends rumbles through the very foundations. It’s a wonder the broken tower does not collapse beneath the siege.

“Silence! I want everyone in the courtyard! Everyone!” She knows that voice, knows the deep timbre, the unyielding iron coated by velvet tones (Meraxes? Meraxes!). He… he had said everyone. And Lyarra Snow, bastard child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark is indeed part of everyone.

 

She moves stiffly, well aware that rebelling would be a very poor idea indeed. Her entire family (cousins and her uncle and an aunt who isn’t really family at all, has never been familiar) is at risk. To act rashly is to sentence them all to death and she dearly hopes every other person present is on the same page. Swallowing harsh and hard, Lyarra quickens her step, ghosting down the stairs and loathing through the corridor. It feels as if she is not truly present, as if this is nothing more than a dream like so many other where Aegon and the dragons are present. But she resides in her own body, she has fingers and toes instead of talons and wings. Her nose is no snout and though there is warmth in her breast, no fire resides in her chest. Not like them. She joins the last few trickles of servants scurrying up from the depths of Winterfell, searching the crowds desperately for her family. Because that’s what they are, they are family. No matter what lies Eddard Stark had told his wife, told the kingdom… told her. He still risked his neck, would still have been killed for hiding even the bastard spawn of Rhaegar. As high upon her tip-toes as she can get, Lyarra’s head swivels back and forth, panic beginning to bloom in her chest as the people crush together and she fails to see anyone she can rely on. The servants are too busy cowering, cuddling children to their sides (the old familiar ache in her heart for a mother is easy to ignore now, she’s so practiced at it) as the guards bravely position themselves to form an outer ring around the people. Lyarra is left alone, lost and utterly unsure. She tries to beg, to ask a guard where she can find the Lord Stark but he brushes her off as another hysterical woman. She wants to scream.

From the darkness the dragon’s head appears again, this time with a familiar figure standing atop the crest of its skull. It is the last person she wants to see, no matter how capable she is of recognising him. The straw that has caught alight in the courtyard has flames reflecting in his otherwise silver hair, the lack of strong lighting failing to colour his dark eyes. But Lyarra knows them. They are just like hers. Indigo eyes. Targaryen eyes.

“Where is Eddard Stark.” Aegon does not shout but he is heard all the same. He cannot be ignored, everyone is looking at him, at him and the dragon. Her legs shake but Lyarra steels herself, barely able to feel the fingers she has clenched around the bow she never put down.

“Prince Aegon, I assume?” And there he is, Eddard Stark pushing through his people, making his way to the front of the crowd. He has somehow managed to grab hold of Ice in the mad scramble, for all the good it will do him against the black dread before them. Lyarra traces the path he has taken through the crowd, sees a flash of red Tully hair and makes to muscle her way through to them.

Something else gets to her first though.

 

 

# Aegon IV

 

 

There's not even a lick of warning before Meraxes is lunging forwards. Aegon snaps out an order for Balerion to halt the other dragon, doing his level best to ignore how the crowds screaming in terror. He knew he shouldn't have trusted them around people, riderless as they are. He's been lulled into a false sense of security, assured by their docile behaviour upon Dragonstone. Passive, quiet, they'd eaten only what they were given and never tried to hunt for more. He should have known there was something wrong. That something is wrong.

People scream, throw themselves out the way, crying and begging for mercy he is in no position to grant. Menaces is not his to command, it is a miracle something such as this has not occurred already.

There's no blood. No blood for teeth do not sink into flesh, the dragon does not devour its prey. There is no prey.

Instead, only a girl remains standing, staring wide-eyed as Meraxes bumps its enormous snout against her forehead in a manner that could almost be described as carefully affectionate. Releasing the hold he has on Blackfyre (what a sword would have done against the dragon he cannot say), Aegon leans forwards, his other hand wrapped tight around the leather he has tied to one of Balerion's horns. Why in the name of the Seven is Meraxes reacting in such a way to the girl? Even more interesting is the look of absolute horror that has stolen over the Stark Lord's face. There's a story here, key components he's missing because that expression isn't the confused relief of a lord who believed his subject was about to die before his eyes. Given the similarities between their faces, he'd guess a family relation. The sheer terror on the man's face even now is cause for concern.

Aegon taps once against Balerion's skull and the great dragon lowers his head, enough for Aegon to jump to the ground. The cobbles are cracked beneath his feet, baked from Balerion's flames or if they were like that prior to his arrival, Aegon cannot say. Instead he begins to approach the girl, no older than four and ten, probably not even flowered yet given she possesses only the slightest hint of womanly curves. She's still enraptured in Meraxes, one hand having risen to brush against its scales jaw. He understands the amazement, it had been a sensation he experienced himself upon gaining Balerion for the first time. Even now, when he reclines into the bulk of his dragon to rest his head, his fingers will crest against his underbelly and wonder how such a magnificent beast could have ever considered him worthy of partnering with. Which is exactly why this makes no sense.

"Your name," Aegon demands as he gets with an arm's reach of the girl. Finally, her attention is stolen from Meraxes, her gaze finds his and Aegon can barely suppress a gasp. That is Visenya's frown and those-

Aegon grasps the girl by the chin, ignoring the roar of fury from the crowd, the demand from the Stark Lord that he releases her this instant.

"Rhaenys," he breathes for those are her very eyes. Just like that it is as if he can see her every Valyrian feature, the sharp jut of her cheekbones, the characteristic cupid's bow that accompanied the tilt to the edge of her lips. She is of Valyrian blood, that cannot be questioned. But no, she cannot be Rhaenys. Too young, no salty Dornishmen- not a drop of Dornish in her. She's not pure Valyrian either, there's too much Stark but a Stark has never married a Targaryen, nor has it occurred vice... versa...

Aegon laughs, bold and loud and utterly unable to help himself. So, that is how it is. This is how it is. A song of ice and fire indeed. Aegon traces her face once more, his touch gentle now, unhurried. No, this Rhaegar had his Rhaenys and his Aegon. Which can only mean-

"Visenya. Not Rhaenys, but Visenya. My apologies." The blood of the Starks, Kings of Winter and with a great sword by the name of Ice. The blood of Targaryens, descendants of the Valyrian stronghold, of Fire and Blood. Undoubtedly he appears mad to those who watch him now. Any hint of meaning his actions give can be nothing more than smoke in the wind to these Northerners. Madness that has dogged the steps of every Targaryen; there was a price to escaping the Doom after all. "I must say, Lord Stark, when I travelled north to treat with you, the last thing I was expecting was a hidden princess." Eyes, indigo eyes so alike his own, widen in shock, the muscles of her jaw loosening, mouth near hanging open. The expression is all Visenya; Rhaenys has always been able to take a surprise in her stride, to not allow it to surface on her face, but when Visenya has found herself truly surprised- her youthful visage flashes before his mind, overlapping with this dark-haired counterpart that boasts features of both sisters.

"Release her."

"So it's true then." It is not Aegon who speaks but instead Visenya. It is tornado of emotion that could in her voice, the surge of a wave cresting, the crack of thunder before a downpour. He can see the tears that gather in the corners of her eyes, bubbling but not yet spilling over. Aegon brushes a hand across the hilt of Blackfyre, eyeing the man who holds Visenya's attention so. There are a lot of visual similarities between the Lord Stark and Visenya, it is clear they are family. But Aegon has read far too recently about the rebellion, about the two pieces of flint that lit the land aflame. Most importantly of all, he has checked everything over with a clear mind free of any prejudices. Eddard Stark, known for his honour and dowdy demeanour, fathering a bastard child while at war to save his family? His sister dead before he could rescue her? Then a bastard kept in his Keep. It had made no sense. No sense until Aegon had laid eyes upon the girl himself. Until he laid his eyes upon those Valyrian features. "I'm not your bastard. I'm Rhaegar Targaryen's bastard, aren't I?!"

The hush that befalls the crowd is oppressive, more and more head's turning to the Stark Lord for an answer, Aegon himself among them. The prophecy had never stated the child must come of a wedded union, just that there would be an offspring born of fire and ice. It may not yet be time for the prophecy to begin its course, even now. There might be still years to pass by. However, that is a chance Aegon is unwilling to take.

One of the women in the crowd, a high-born lady, breaths out a horrified, breathy, "Ned." The Stark Lord glances her way before his spine seems to crumple inwards, his shoulders hunching.

"No. You are no bastard, Lyarra. Rhaegar took my sister as a second wife. You are of my blood, but you are trueborn."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm totally ignoring the bit about the different coloured fire for dragons. Fire is orange because I said so.
> 
> In regards to Aegon and prophecy, this is the only info I’ve got on Aegon (below) and I’m rolling with the enigma part. Who says only Lyarra has dragon dreams here? Or that all dragon dreams are the same?
> 
>  
> 
> ‘Aegon was seen as an enigma. He was a solitary person whose only friend was Orys Baratheon. He was a great warrior but only rode his dragon, Balerion, for battle or travel and never entered tourneys. Aegon remained faithful to his sisters and left governance in their hands and only took command when necessary. While he was harsh with those who defied him, he was generous to those that bent the knee.[3]
> 
> Aegon is not considered to have been particularly pious.[3] According to a semi-canon source, he followed the Faith of the Seven for political reasons.‘


	3. Chapter 3

# Aegon V

 

Seated within the Godswood Winterfell boasts of and with Balerion’s huge head hanging over the side of the castle wall (in addition to Meraxes’ presence), Aegon eyes the Stark Lord across from him, constantly aware of just how close Visenya is.

She had been so incredibly hesitant to accompany him, one hand still clasped around the grip of a well-worn bow, eyes still blown wide and quite unable to turn away from him after the Stark Lord had confirmed what she has apparently already been suspecting. A piece of him smarts at the very concept of a trueborn Targaryen being brought up as a bastard, treated lesser. Yet, as he recalls what happened to Princess Elia and Princess Rhaenys (what happened to Prince Aegon or his own body double), he must concede that Visenya’s safety would have been paramount in the Stark Lord’s eyes and who would ever think to look for a princess in a bastard child? Aegon himself had only set eyes upon the girl when Meraxes literally sniffed her out.

Pale hands cast in the light of the halfmoon tremble upon the lap of her thin nightdress and Aegon reaches to take one of those hands in his. The look of surprise Visenya shoots him, as if shocked to receive any form of comfort or support in public, is leaving him feeling less than merciful. She would not be here without the Stark Lord, he reminds himself forcefully, turning his gaze upon the man in question. Despite what she has suffered, Visenya still breathes thanks to her uncle’s willingness to deceive the realm, to deceive his wife and family and the best friend he kneels to. The love this man must have felt for his sister, to risk not just his own neck but that of his family and their legacy… Aegon can respect him for that.

It is, however, exceptionally clear that Eddard Stark is not made for the political games of the South. Disgust and a deep weariness have been engraved into his features as Aegon made clear his demands. The man would, in the very least, remain neutral in this war, though would preferably aid Aegon’s conquest with an army. He would offer the Usurper no aid and reach out to his connections within the Riverlands to ensure the Tully Lord was aware just how very poorly he could choose should he back the Usurper. Finally, he would turn over Visenya, allowing her to retake her rightful place as a Princess of the realm and a true Targaryen. It is this that the Lord Stark seems to contest the most. Aegon can respect the man’s family loyalty; it is this that will be the reason he grants the Stark Lord mercy, grants him the option to kneel and keep his position as Warden of the North.

The man’s wife, however, is a different matter altogether.

Visenya will not even meet the woman’s eyes and, given how the Lady of Winterfell is staring at the younger girl in barely concealed horror, Aegon deduces that his fellow Targaryen has been shown something of a bastard’s usual level of welcome.

His lips thin and Aegon slides his cape free of his armour, laying it across Visenya’s shoulders. The excess material pools in her lap, a waterfall of deep red. There’s a moment of hesitation and then she draws it right around her form, sinking into his offer of warmth. That alone settles Aegon’s next course of action.

“Despite your attempts to delay us, we will be leaving by the morning’s light,” Aegon concludes, Balerion’s hot breath ghosting across the back of his neck. “I have made my concessions clear, it is by your own leave if you follow them or not.” Balerion huffs, steam coiling in the summer’s air, heat brushing through Aegon’s locks and kissing at his cheeks.

Visenya is quiet beside him, dark smudges lingering beneath her eyes a clear indication as to why. He does regret interrupting her sleep; there had been two before her who so disliked his invasion of their slumber. He had done his best to avoid that where he could. Yet, there were times when the realm waited for no one and Aegon had suffered the consequences of being a rightful and just king.

“Lyarra,” Eddard Stark breathes, looking to the young woman seated beside Aegon; when she refuses to meet his eyes, the stare is instead turned upon Aegon, “she will be safe with you?”

“I swear it, by fire and blood. While you have my deepest sincerities for her survival… the fates of Rhaenys and Elia remain unaccounted for.” You did not chase justice for them, you who claims to be an honourable man has allowed this to slide by.

Eddard Stark’s jaw clenches but he speaks no more on the matter, his wife remaining by his side. She has been quiet throughout the whole proceedings, it is by the glances (horrified, guilt-laced regret) that Aegon can begin guessing at the familiar relations between Visenya and this woman. He has no need to deal with her, she is no one of significance and he shan’t be wasting time upon dealing with her. Visenya is his to care for now, has always been his to care for; she has just been waiting here, waiting for him.

 

 

The Stark Lord is far from happy, that much is clear. But there is little he can do to prevent Aegon from leaving with Visenya. If he puts up any significant form of protest, Aegon is not against forcing him to submit and the man knows that. The haunting form of Balerion had resided over their meeting for that exact reason. He did not plan on leaving with the eldest Stark boy, however.

Robb Stark watches him with chips of frosted blue ice, his arms folded across his chest. Residing within that awkward stage of almost-a-man, the auburn-haired heir had insisted upon parting with them, deaf to his mother’s cries and screams of denial. A part of Aegon can concede to the boy’s feeble manipulations; offering himself up as a hostage forces Aegon to truly consider the North aligned with his motives, all the while allowing the boy to keep an eye on his sister. Robb Stark had stressed the term furiously, wolf’s blood surging behind his Tully eyes.

Aegon hadn’t even considered turning the offer down. Though it’s a clear ploy to guard his sister-turned-cousin, the advantages had been too great to pass up. The surety of holding the North’s future, the chance to assess the young lord and gain an insight into his personality; it all allows Aegon to begin paving the way for the future that will come after the conquest. Robb Stark will inherit the North; he already holds a great deal of affection for Visenya; if Aegon can kindle the same familiar sensations, then the chances of the boy supporting his own rule increase drastically.

It still makes for an uncomfortable ride back; Visenya cautiously seated upon Meraxes, Robb Stark with his forearms wrapped around Aegon’s chest as the dawn’s wind bites bitter against their skin. Balerion is warm between the meat of his thighs, familiar and scorching. By the constant shuffling of the body behind him, the young Stark finds no comfort here. Understandable; Balerion would dive for Aegon should he fall.

Robb Stark would not be so duly considered.

 

 

Silence continues to shroud Visenya as they arrive within the main chamber.

Robb Stark has since been shown to his accommodations, fitting for his station but guarded as would be required. Visenya (sister, descendant, Targaryen) watches him with the same dark eyes he witnesses in the still waters, the very same shade of eminence purple as his own irises. Unlike him, her own eyes are guarded aggressively, her lips pressed into a firm, tight line. Cautious. There’s a beauty about her, there always is when it comes to those of Valyrian descent. But it is a soft, supple thing. An overwash of gentle waves, rising and rising until it surrounds, until it is the first thing to be noticed. Aegon does not forget the bow she grasps, the quiver that still resides upon her shoulder; two of the guards have already dismissed that the weapon remains in her grasp, too entranced.

“What would you have of me, Your Highness?” Her voice is as soft-spoken as the Rhaenys of his memories; he recalls the iron to her tone when she had addressed her uncle, so alike the Visenya of the past. Two women rolled into one body within the wake of the second Rhaenys’ death. She does not recall as he does, he can see that much. It is evident in the way she glances upon him; there are no memories within her mind of the sisters that came before. Perhaps this Visenya is a person independent of others, perhaps she is not. She is familiar; for that, he will hold her close. Treasured.

“Aegon.”

“Pardon?”

“To you, Visenya, I shall be Aegon. Only Aegon.” He has no intention of doing this alone, had not completed the first alone (he? his ancestor?), there had been two others. Now, for the greed and wrath of man, for the sins of their enemies, there is but two of them. He shall not fall, shall not allow Visenya to stand alone.

But she too must return the same ideals.

 

 

 

# Lyarra V

 

She is shown to a room, grander than any she has ever stayed in (any she has ever visited) before. Lyarra dares not touch much of anything within, hesitant to even approach the window. A bed stretches across the right side of the room, lounging in such a manner that it takes up the entire wall. It seems too much, far too much for her, that is. Slowly, Lyarra seats herself on the bed, hands tangling within the scarlet cloth still draped across her shoulders. Aegon had given it to her, his flowing cape, laid it across her shoulders as if she could draw warmth from it. Only, it had not been with cold that Lyarra had trembled. No, it was the fear of what would become of her family that had gripped her so tightly. Her uncle, who had lied to the whole world in order to secure her life. Her brother (for Robb shall always be her brother, cousins by blood or not) who had so willingly offered himself up as hostage in order to continue protecting her. She doesn’t deserve either of them… only, she’s not an unworthy bastard anymore, is she? Married, Eddard Stark (the man who told no lies but one) had claimed the Dragon Prince had married Lyanna… had married Lyarra’s mother. Is she even truly Lyarra? Is her birth name Visenya, as Aegon Targaryen seems to whole-heartedly believe? The world no longer makes sense, she resides within a castle of a man who plans to bring Westeros to its knees and her fa-uncle, the man she’d believed invincible, is being held all but at sword-point. All the while, Lyarra rests upon a bed too grand and too large, aware of only one truth. There is a dragon that belongs to her.

Meraxes. That was the name Aegon had whispered, had called, so many times. Within her dreams, within waking life, every time it had been that name the dragon she is… bonded with had responded to it.

“Meraxes.” Testing the name on her tongue brings no religious realisation, nor does anything magically click into place. Instead, it’s acknowledgement. Acknowledgement of something that has always been present and she is just accepting it now. Meraxes has always been hers. She has always belonged to Meraxes. It had just taken them meeting to confirm it. When she had been seated upon the dragon’s neck, hands wrapped around the large horns… nothing had ever felt so natural as that. Nothing had ever felt so pure and perfect. It had been as if, for the first time in her whole life, all was right with the world. While, in truth, nothing was right. She’s been torn away from her home, found her whole life to be a lie, and now has to content with a brother who is intent on taking over Westeros for reasons unknown. A brother who is undoubtedly perusing justice for his dead sister and mother. For Lyarra’s half-sister. That thought promotes bile, bile that rests at the back of her throat as she recalls just what Princess Rhaenys’ fate had been. Her half-sister… that could have been her, if the Lord of the North hadn’t lied to everyone. Hadn’t lied to her.

A knock at the door startles Lyarra out of her dark thoughts. The castle, despite residing upon an island within a particularly stormy patch of sea, carries a warmth about it. Though that might be a result of the three dragons in residency. She’s far from knowledgeable on the beasts. Is anyone, given they’d previously been thought extinct?

“Your Highness? Please open the door.” The voice is female, soft spoken and accented in a way Lyarra has never heard. It doesn’t make her any less trusting. She is not longer protected by her fath- uncle’s men; the only person whose motives she’s sure of are Robb’s and he’s who knows where in this keep? Aegon… Aegon wants her alive. There’s a sinking suspicion as to why. It is the first thing in her life so far that chills Lyarra’s innards.

Marriage. She knows that it is in her future, but she’d always pictured a lesser bannerman. Perhaps Smalljon, who she is sure would treat her kindly. Now… now she has become a pawn in the Game of Thrones. To be married off to secure an allegiance at her brother’s convenience. She dares not think of the other option, dares not allow her mind to tread in that direction.

Lyarra picks up her bow, notches an arrow before she cautiously unbolts the door. She does feel terrible when the threshold exposes nothing more than a chambermaid, looking suitable horrified to be on the business end of Lyarra’s bow.

“I- sorry. I didn’t know…” Lyarra trails off, utterly unsure how to finish her sentence. She didn’t know if there would be enemies of Aegon’s rule behind the door? On the one island he has to his name? His ancestral homeland, his one seat of power? Then again, just because the people who call this land home support Aegon, does not mean they will show her the same curtesy.

“Ah! You do not need to apologise to me, Your Highness. His Grace sends these. He also hopes you will join him for dinner in his parlour… he has also extended the invitation to Lord Robb.” Just like that, the one reason Lyarra has to turn him down disappears. It would be in her best interests to find where she stands with Aegon, that much is clear.

“Thank you. I accept.”

“I will relay the message to His Grace.” The maid bows, disappearing down the corridor as Lyarra shuts the door, suddenly aware she never even asked for the girl’s name. Her cheeks burn, embarrassed by her own inability to come to recognise her surroundings. It is not just the physical geography she must pay attention to, but also the people. Aegon’s people. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Lyarra looks down at the soft mass of fabrics the girl had handed to her, inspecting the deep red silks. It is by far finer than anything else she has ever worn, embroidered with darker threads to create a subtle scale like patter down the back. She feels dirty just from touching it.

With no idea how long she has until this lunch, Lyarra makes for the adjoining room she hadn’t dared to approach yet, peering inside. A bath already resides within, filled with water. There’s a small box beneath and, upon peeling back the door, it reveals a mass of straw and timbre. Two flints reside upon the top of the box, clearly present to light a fire and warm her water. Hesitant, Lyarra reaches for them, shuffling the chips about in her hands. Lighting a fire is not beyond her.

 

 

Time passes; the candles of her rooms shrink, pools of wax gathering in the holders. Lyarra finds a short blade, clearly created with the intent of shaving, and she shears the hairs from her legs. The pale skin beneath is smooth; she runs her fingers across the surface with tentative ease, marvelling in the motions. It’s not something she’d have dared to do in the North, having only recently overheard from Sansa’s gossiping with her friends that it is a common beauty routine in the South. Probably for a man’s enjoyment but… Lyarra quite likes it. Her calves feel fantastic when she rubs them together now.

It is not, however, the only thing she has changed.

Glancing at the long locks of hair that now decorate the floor, she consciously reaches for the choppy strands that now only just kiss at her collarbones. She’d not dared to cut her hair before, despite a multitude of shared fantasies concocted with Arya under the cover of darkness. Now… now, she is either a captive prisoner or one of the most powerful women in the realm. Perhaps both. It is a test, a test to see how Aegon will react, to understand if she should sneak to Meraxes and flee or remain and risk her future on the whims of her previously unknown brother.

Lyarra has long dreamed of short hair, hair that would not get in the way of her quiver, of her bow and the arrows she sends flying from it. Lady Catelyn had made her impressions of short hair quite clear. It is for this reason that Lyarra so determinedly has sliced off the majority of her mane. Drastic measures perhaps. But she can all but hear Arya cheering her on. Tucking one unruly strand behind her ear, Lyarra sighs, considering the tiara that came with the dress a single glance.

No, far too soon. She can’t. Not right now.

Perhaps never.

 

 

# Aegon VI

 

While he had been tempted to take his meal in the Chamber with the painted Table, Aegon had ultimately decided to forestall bringing the Stark boy in on his conquest. Though Robb Stark would not be sending ravens anytime soon (certainly not unsupervised anyway), there is no need to create unnecessary risks for himself and his conquest. Instead, they reside within the Red Parlour, named so for the coloured glass that fills every window. With its black piping, it allows light to leak through in the Targaryen colours, bathing the room in a crimson glow. One window provides less light than the others; Balerion resides behind that one, his intimidating bulk pressing up against the side of the keep. The storm rages outside, as if the heavens weep as Lord Stark undoubtedly does. With his previous actions, he has signed the North for war with the Crown, carved the pathway that will allow Northern warriors to join Aegon’s cause. Many may not realise it, but Robb Stark resides within his keep now. Robb Stark is the key to the North, to the Riverlands. And Visenya is the key to Robb Stark.

As the thought of his sister crosses his mind, Aegon settles more comfortably into his chair, watching the boy across from his but considering another. In truth, he had not expected to find Visenya when he flew North. The intention had been to make the largest of the Kingdom’s submit, to accept his rule and his word. To accept his stake for the crown. Atop dragon back, there is little they could do to complain. Instead, he had found a way into their hearts. For the past few hours, Aegon has realized himself with the tale of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, taken with the new information that they were wed. It certainly put a new spin on things; a tale of tragic love, of two lovers who risked everything for their romance and lost it all. The realm bled and right now, the attitude towards Rhaegar (father, descendant, the Last Dragon), is far from good. The Crown’s current stance tells of a devil who spirited away a young, innocent woman. However… Aegon cannot picture a Stark being forced to wed; not one who was so proudly declared to carry the ‘wolf’s blood’. No, he rather assumes Lyanna Stark fled an unworthy suitor. He has heard tale enough of the King, both past and present, to decide that the attentions of an attentive prince would be much preferred to the drunken lout that currently rules. Perhaps Robert Baratheon would have been worthy of note in his prime; yet, the wolf maid still chose another.

His mind spins back into focus, revolving once again around Visenya. A sister. He had two of those, once. Warriors, dragon-riders, lovers. Visenya unquestionably fits within one of these categories. He’s hesitant place her within the other two. Not without first considering all the angles. He knows so little of her. She is Meraxes chosen rider, a Targaryen by blood but also claims to be blood of the first kings, blood of the Starks. A child of fire and ice. That is the important bit. That is the bit that sings within his brain, harmonising with a melody that has haunted him his whole life, that had haunted his descendants. Perhaps that is Rhaegar’s reasoning for taking a second wife. Perhaps he had realised what was to come, what danger lies in wake. The danger that Aegon was dreaming of when he was nought but a green boy, unbloodied and innocent.

Mayhap it shall be his child with Visenya that claims the title of Prince that was Promised.

Aegon banishes the thought from his mind forcibly. Now is not the time. He has set aside dinner in order to test Robb Stark, to allow himself a chance to grasp the boy’s character. It had been here that he developed a friendship with another boy close to his age, a boy who would have fought by his side and been rewarded handsomely. A boy whose descendant he now wages war upon. They had been close one, Targaryen and Baratheon. Now, however. Things are different now. It is time to reach out and build new bridges, to extend new branches. The Starks, known for their loyalty to their people and their steadfast preparation for Winter above all else is a good place to start.

“How do you find Dragonstone, Robb Stark?” Flicking his gaze to the boy in question, Aegon watches the fabric of his doublet stretch, the shoulders beneath tensing. Robb has yet to start eating; they are still waiting on their female company after all. Though Aegon assumes the other boy will be as unimpressed with young Shireen as Aegon himself was. Baratheon in name, not much else. He does pity the girl for the grey-scale that mars her features; he will ensure a good match is made for the girl, if nothing else. But she shall never be a true beauty. Her personality is also substandard. That, however, can be worked on with the correct company.

“It’s a grand piece of architecture, Your Grace.” There’s a shallow dip to Robb Stark’s head as he speaks, but while his posture is submissive, his eyes are anything but. Wolf’s blood, no doubt. Just, a subtler tinge to it than any he’s heard of before. Like the fish beneath the stream, masked by the water’s surface, giving no hints to the dangers that lurk beneath.

“But you prefer Winterfell.”

“Winterfell is my home. Our home.” There needs be no explanation on just who the ‘our’ includes. Aegon tilts his head, considering the boy whose bravery boarders upon stupidity. While it has yet to tip-toe across that razor fine line… He’s not too far off.

“There is a lethal beauty to winter. The weather is exceptionally pure but can kill a man with as much ease as the flames. One cooks you alive, strips the flesh from your bones. The other seeps into them; frostbite can be considered a more torturous way to die than flames. As a Northerner, I’m sure you are well aware of that, Rob Stark.” Whatever rebukes the young heir wishes to voice are suffocated when the door opens and the last of their company appears. Shireen seems to have found Visenya on her way down, for the young girl stands almost half-hidden by her elder companion, her long, dark hair pulled back in an intricate braid. It’s a startling contrast to the jagged strands Visenya sports.

Aegon cannot possibly hope to steal his eyes from her.

 

# Lyarra VI

 

Aegon spends the dinner informing her of House Targaryen’s history. Yet, for all that he speaks of the dragonsblood that resides within her veins… his tales do not centre upon the Crown. No, the majority of his exploits exist in a time before a united Westeros thriving under Targaryen rule. In fact, a fair portion of the tales revolve around the most famous of their ancestors; Aegon and his two sister wives. Not once does Aegon refer to them as such, however. Within his tales, they are simply Visenya and Rhaenys. They are tales she, and probably anyone who is not a member of the main Targaryen family, has never heard of.

He makes no mention of her hair, past the first few moments he’d spent staring. Robb is worse; he has yet to wipe the horror from his face. It makes her relatively self conscious, even if Shireen has stated she looked lovely. Lyarra... Lyarra feels protective of the other girl already. She’s no Arya, has no hope of being a Sansa (though Lyarra is beginning to suspect that both of those things may be a good thing in the South) but, none the less, she is the only other girl of status here.

No, she cannot think that and remain serious. Lyarra doesn’t feel she’s a princess. She doesn’t feel like she’s a woman of importance, even as she sits here at this dinner table with the heir of the North and the Prince who aims to usurp the usurper. No- to claim his rightful throne. She’s a Targaryen now, Lyarra forcibly reminds herself. She has no choice but to think as one of them, to wish for Aegon’s victory. Because her very existence has forced her uncle’s hand, has tied the otherwise apathetic North too tightly to Aegon’s righteous campaign.

Aegon does a good job at piercing the silence that otherwise surrounds them, but it is clear he is untested in such a thing. He can hold a conversation, can teach them the history of his (their) house remarkable well. But it is not a comfortable thing. Perhaps this is how all lords’ dinners of significance go. Lyarra wouldn’t know; this is the first one she has ever been able to grace, after all.

“What are you going to do next?”

A single breath is taken, passing between her lips, before Lyarra realises it was she who spoke. Aegon, having finished one tale and been in the process of consulting his mind for another, flicks his gaze up to look at her. They have the same eyes, she realises. The same dark indigo, the same mystic darkness housed in their faces beneath any sky barring bright sunlight. 

“Lyarra, don’t-”

“No. Allow Visenya to finish her questioning,” Aegon interrupts her brother and Robb’s face makes it blatantly clear he has never experience another of his age cutting him off, “I would like to hear what her thoughts, along with any other issues she wishes to be addressed.” Placing his goblet down upon the tabletop, Aegon threads his fingers together and balanced his chin upon the weave he has created. His full attention is upon her. He’s got a dragon’s gaze, she realises. Fully focused, it takes her breath away. Not in the Knight in shining armour way either, but nor is it predator and prey. Instead, the sheer amount of attention Aegon lavishes upon her in that moment seems to replace all of Lyarra’s fragile bones with steel, coats her innards in dragon flames. She wishes to rise to the challenge, she is horrified to find. A once bastard, she could have never thought to respond in kind. Yet, here she is now, a princess with a would-be king practically inviting her to speak her mind.

“I want to know if you plan to have my f- my uncle’s men march upon the other kingdoms. I want to know who you plan to besiege with dragons next. I want to know my place in all of this... who it is you intend for me to marry.”

At that, Robb chokes, his cheeks beginning to turn a feverish red as he swing around to offer Aegon his best Tully flats, copies right for the canvas of his mother. It is a terribly intimating thing; what is a fish, a wolf, before a dragon? Nothing but prey. Only one is even worth of Aegon’s notice.

Occupying the final chair at the table, Shireen Baratheon slowly recedes into the harsh wooden back, a curtain of dark hair tumbling across her features to hide her infliction for view. Lyarra’s heart goes out to her, a girl the gods have so clearly not taken to heart, who they have not protected or gifted. There are far few who have that more of protection.

“Is this what you believe I have taken you from the North for?” Aegon asks, softly and unhurried with his words. He’s still in the same position with only one difference; his he’s is tilted up and yet, impossibly, he is still staring at her from beneath the thick layer of his lashes. In the unnatural red lighting the windows cast upon the room, he looks unearthly, far too beautiful for this land. It is no wonder the Targaryen’s were so beloved, so hated. True beauty can inspire only the strongest of emotions, after all. “That I have nothing but plans to weave you into?”

And Lyarra finds herself at a loss for words. How is one supposed to respond to such questioning when it is becoming so blatant that Aegon has no such plans?

“Feel free to spend the rest of the evening together; I am afraid I have a council to meet with, though I will require your presence, each of you, shortly after the dawning sun. A guard will escort you to the Chamber of the Painted Table.” With that, Aegon stands, prompting all of them to their feet for the sake of social niceties alone.

He walks towards the door alone, stopping a foot shy of her chair.

“The cut suits your face, Visenya. You’re beautiful.”

 

And then he is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Changed it to 13 years after the rebellion instead of 12. 
> 
> You can blame the sudden influx of interest I've got with this fic idea on Imagine Dragons and their song 'Natural'. It is now and forever Aegon's song in my mind and since I'm addicted to that song, motivation attacked.


End file.
